THE NIGHT PIECE.

TO JULIA.

HER eyes the glowworme lend thee,
The shooting starres attend thee,
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No will-o'th'wispe mislight thee,
Nor snake nor slowworme bite thee;
But on, thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there's none to affright thee!

Let not the darke thee cumber;

What though the moon does slumber,

The starres of the night

Will lend thee their light

Like tapers cleare without number!

Then, Julia, let me wooe thee,
Thus, thus, to come unto me;
And, when I shall meet
Thy silv'ry feet,

My soule I'll poure unto thee.

ON A TEAR.

HERRICK.

OH! that the Chemist's magic art
Could crystallize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cell,The spring of Sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! In thee the rays of virtue shine,— More calmly clear, more mildly bright, Than any gem that gilds the mine.

Benign restorer of the soul!

Who ever fly'st to bring relief,— When first we feel the rude control Of love or pity, joy or grief.

The sage's and the poet's theme,
In every clime-in every age;
Thou charm'st in fancy's idle dream,
In reason's philosophic page.

That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

ROGERS.

CANZONET.

On a day (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,

Playing in the wanton air:

Through the velvet leaves the wind,

All unseen, 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's-breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But alack, my hand is sworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom Jove would swear,

Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.

SHAKSPERE.

LOVE, passionate young Love, how sweet it is To have the bosom made a paradise

By thee, life light'd by thy rainbow smile!

LANDON.

SONG.

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing;

A plant that with most cutting grows;
Most barren with best using:
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,
Hey, ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;

And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting:
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries,

Hey, ho!

DANIEL.